


Thunder on My Brow, Lightning in Our Kiss

by LadyNimrodel



Series: Lost but not Gone [2]
Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Established Relationship, Fix-It of Sorts, Fluff, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, SO MUCH FLUFF
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-12
Updated: 2015-06-12
Packaged: 2018-04-04 02:45:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,288
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4122991
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyNimrodel/pseuds/LadyNimrodel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Smutty continuation of My Love Wears Fire in His Hair. The storm makes everything so much more intense.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Thunder on My Brow, Lightning in Our Kiss

**Author's Note:**

> There is really no excuse for this except I really wanted to write some porn for these two *hides*

Outside a storm rages. 

Thunder growls at the heavens and bright fingers of bluish lightning lick at the clouds. Wind and rain slash at the round kitchen window, rattling it in its frame. The voices the storm sings with become a bodiless third party on the island that has become their world. The smooth tiles of the kitchen floor. The chair Bilbo keeps kicking. The table leg that Thorin hits his head on. The bottle of almond-scented baking oil, upended and pooling on the ground. Darkness interrupted by flashes of pale light, spilled across the floor for single seconds at a time. This is their world. 

When they are like this, skin on skin, hands grasping and touching, breathing each other’s air, everything else fades away. 

Thorin presses Bilbo against the floor, tiles cool under his knees, doing his best to fulfill the promise he made to himself earlier. His mouth drags along the insides of deliciously plump thighs, naked and spread open, leaving bites and red rashes from his beard on the pale skin. The scent of earth and musk is thick here, familiar after long years and he hoists one of Bilbo’s knees over his shoulder so he breathe deeply into the crease where thigh meets hip. 

Bilbo’s whimper is swallowed by a roll of thunder but his hands that tug at Thorin’s dark-silver curls are expressive enough. 

The fireflies that wreathed their heads in light have been left outside with the wind and the rain and rippling grass. But the fire remains, burning between them like bottled sunlight. It fills the pit of his stomach and he needs in a way he never knew he could, before Bilbo. With sharp teeth, he bites at those lovely round thighs, licks at the soft skin. Tomorrow, when he watches Bilbo dress from the comfort of their bed, he will smile to see a flurry of marks on the white insides of these lovely thighs. And he is rewarded with delicious yanks on his hair where Bilbo has wrapped long strands around his fists. Just like he knows how marking his thighs drives Bilbo wild, his hobbit knows in turn that pulling on Thorin’s hair will send shocks of pleasure sparking down his spine. 

They know each other well enough by now where to place each touch, each kiss, each pull, each thrust. Sometimes they just touch to feel. Idle hands that can wander for hours over the planes and valleys of their bodies. Slow, unhurried thrusts that can meld them together for endless moments while they just breathe into each other’s mouths. Feel the air from the other flow into their lungs, taste it, drink it in. But those times are meant for mornings when there are no chores to be done and no guests to expect. Or on lazy afternoons when Thorin gets bored of books and songs and food. Or behind the smial in a private grove on a late summer’s eve when it is hot and sticky but not too hot to keep them from pushing close together. 

This is not like those times. This is all teeth and gasps and grasping hands. Clothes had been discarded before they were barely even in the door and they only made it to the kitchen before Thorin had Bilbo on the floor, rocking desperately into the cradle of his hips. 

He knows he would have finished then, if Bilbo had not pulled at his hair and panted at him.

“In me. Please, I want you in me, Thorin,” and he has never been good at saying no when Bilbo looks at him like that. With his golden curls dark, shadowy smudges around his head and eyes black, heavy with desire. 

And then the thunderstorm reached the Shire, howling outside like some enraged animal, each crash of thunder and flash of lightning charging the air between them like they themselves are made of electricity. It took willpower he did not know he had to crawl away for the two seconds to spot the jar of baking oil that had been left out and make a grab for it. He thinks, as he sucks on the rounded curve of Bilbo’s belly while swiping he fingers through the growing puddle of almond scented oil on the floor, maybe Bilbo will forgive him for breaking the jar. 

Thunder rattles and he kneels between Bilbo’s legs. A flash of lightening captures the sweat that has collected at the hollow of Bilbo’s throat, another the tilt of his chin as Thorin bites once more on his thigh, a third the curve of his hard cock, dripping onto his stomach. 

“Now,” he is gasping, feet moving restlessly against Thorin’s shoulder and calf, “Now, Thorin, please, ple—” the pleading breaks off with a cry as a thick finger breaches him, sliding all the way in. Bilbo’s body remembers him, now so used to his touch Thorin likes to think he has permanently made a place for himself in Bilbo’s skin. Inside is hot, hot enough he thinks he will burn, and slick with sweet smelling oil. When he crooks his finger, slender hips buck under his free hand and in a bright flash of light, he can see Bilbo twisting desperately into his touch. 

One more finger, covered with more oil, moving and pressing into Bilbo until he is glad for the thunder to mask the sounds. Or maybe it is because of the thunder that it feels so good. Heat pulses in his belly, making his cock so hard, it rubs his stomach every time he moves. And even though he has been inside Bilbo many times and will be again many more, the urgency that fills him is nearly impossible to ignore. 

But he waits. 

Waits for a very specific moan, a certain twist of Bilbo’s hips, hands floating around Thorin’s face like he wants kisses but is too wrecked to ask for them. 

Only then does he pull his fingers free and drag his palm through the spill of oil. It is cool against his cock, a sharp relief against the rage of fever within him and he can’t help a second pull and then a third, pleasure flooding his blood. Another flash reveals Bilbo’s eyes, watching him under heavy lids. The thigh on his shoulder slips off so both can wrap around his waist, anticipation making them tremble. 

It is bliss, when he sinks in. 

All the way to the hilt, filling Bilbo up, the feel of it stealing his breath. 

Thunder crashes and he moves. 

It is easy, melding together like this. When they first began, years ago, when there was darkness and grief and too many memories between them, this was the farthest thing from easy. There was pain and anger and bitterness. Often times, when they coupled, it was more for comfort than pleasure. But those days have long passed and those wounds are nothing more than thin scars on their souls. Now when he touches Bilbo, it is with reverence and when they kiss, love burns so hot in his chest that he thinks the word love is much too small for what he feels. 

It burns in him now as he plants his hands on either side of Bilbo’s head and uses the rhythm of the storm to time his thrusts. 

Arms curl around his neck and he lets Bilbo pull him down so he is on his elbows, his beard rasping against smooth skin and Bilbo’s hushed little moans hidden in the fall of his hair. And he moves. They kiss, teeth on lips, sucking on tongues and when the thunder rumbles again, his hips slam forward harder than he intends. 

The sound Bilbo makes, though, causes him move just as hard next time. Pleasure burns in his belly, tingling along his thighs and flaring bright behind his eyes. The intensity of it is like nothing he has ever felt before and he shakes with it. Thorin suspects he might be making sounds but he cannot hear them over Bilbo’s voice and the thunder. Bilbo, who is crying out now, clawing at Thorin’s shoulder and rising to met every single one of his thrusts. There is not enough air between them, there is too much noise and it is pushing him too high, too fast. The clench of heat around his cock is tight and good, so good, so much. 

There is pain in his wrist from slamming his fist against the floor and hands in his hair and he needs to…he needs...

Suddenly Bilbo tenses, back bowing and heels digging into Thorin’s thighs. In a weak flash of light, Thorin sees his head thrown back and he knows that soft hitching cry. Holds himself in check long enough to feel Bilbo finish, to feel the stillness, the way he tightens even more, the splash of wet heat between them. Then Bilbo falls to shivering, moaning through the flood of pleasure as it disperses through his blood and Thorin cannot wait any longer. 

This time he feels the thunder in his bones and when he comes, it is with lightning in his blood. 

They fall together, breathing and waiting for time to catch up with them again. Thorin feels weak, his body sprawled across Bilbo’s as his mind floats and wanders. Most of the time, he is rolled away as soon as Bilbo begins having trouble breathing from his weight but tonight they listen to the storm move on until the thunder is nothing but low mutterings in the distance and the air is cool against Thorin’s back.

“What was that?” Bilbo breathes into the darkness of the kitchen, stirring just enough send sparks through the places they are still joined and causing Thorin to shiver. With great care, he pulls away, swallowing a low protesting groan with a kiss. Then curls his arms around Bilbo’s smaller form and breathes in the scent of his hair. Almonds, sweat, grass and light. That is what he finds when the honey colored curls cling to his damp cheeks. 

He thinks he might still be trembling. 

“I do not know,” he murmurs back, clutching Bilbo tighter. A round thigh hitches up over his hip and small hands slide into his hair again. 

“It’s never been quite so….” Bilbo begins and trails off, pressing his nose into the skin at Thorin’s neck.

“No,” he agrees because he knows Bilbo was going to say quite so intense. Intense like burning. There is silence again for a long while before Bilbo giggles, a breathless sound that tickles Thorin’s throat and makes him smile, “What is it?” he murmurs, stroking the length of Bilbo’s thigh, hip to knee, with his fingertips. The air is cold now, cold enough for him to ponder the trip to their bed, but he will not move yet. He wants to stay surrounded by the smell of almonds and sex just a little longer. 

“Nothing. I am just going to remember this next time there is a storm,” he laughs again and Thorin growls, rolling so he has Bilbo pressed back against the tiles and rubs his beard into his belly, making the hobbit yell and kick. When he finally lets up, they are both breathless from laughter. He lays on top of Bilbo, chin pillowed on his chest, and admires the way Bilbo’s eyes gleam in the near darkness, “Though next time perhaps we can spare my poor back and use the bed,” he wiggles a little and finally Thorin concedes, climbing gracelessly to his feet. His limbs still feel a little weak. 

Even so, before Bilbo can do more than sit up, Thorin bends down, arms at Bilbo’s back and knees, and swings the hobbit into his arms. 

“Oi! You daft old dwarf, put me down!” he shouts, pushing against Thorin’s shoulder but it is no use. Thorin stubbornly holds on and waits for Bilbo to settle. His weight is slight, nothing to swinging an ax or broadsword for hours and he knows he can hold Bilbo all day if he chose. But he makes for the bedroom, using the shadows to guide him through the house, smiling when Bilbo’s arm curls around his neck. 

“I’m trying to spare your back, since you were complaining about it,” he says simply and gets a snort in return. 

“How considerate,” Bilbo says dryly, though he kisses Thorin’s shoulder a moment later, “Honestly, being carried away like some consort,” his grumbling makes Thorin laugh as he kicks their bedroom door open and strides into the room. There he puts Bilbo gently down on his feet, clutching him around the waist to keep him close. Lips trail over his collar bone, making him sigh. 

“You are no consort, Bilbo, just as I am no king,” he finds Bilbo’s lips in the darkness, licking his way into the willing mouth and when he pulls away, he tilts his head to the side, “If anything, I am yours. Consort to the Master of Bag End,” he smiles as he says it, liking the way it sounds. Likes it better than any title he has ever worn. For some reason it makes Bilbo shiver and slide his hands down Thorin’s arms so he can twine their fingers together. He can feel the weight of Bilbo’s gaze through the shadows. 

“You are much more than that, Thorin. You are everything,” he whispers, voice painfully sincere and for a moment, Thorin cannot breathe, “Now come on, I am not done with you just yet,” and the moment is broken. 

They go to bed breathing laughter into each other’s mouths and kissing devotion to each other’s lips. 

In the distance, thunder rumbles. 

 

end

**Author's Note:**

> unbeta'd 
> 
> oh my goooosh so shmoopy!!


End file.
